


Allegro

by ShayLaLaLooHoo



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Brave and the Bold
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Chases, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Headcanon, Headcanon Identity, Hurt/Comfort, Implied abuse, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, chase scene, protective, references of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 18:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4403303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShayLaLaLooHoo/pseuds/ShayLaLaLooHoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allegro - the musical term dictating a brisk tempo.<br/>The Music Meister finds himself in a tight spot when he finds the severely injured Harley Quinn alone on Gotham's streets with the Batmobile on his tail. (Mentions of abuse, since Harley/Joker is insinuated. Sustained injured described.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Retreat

**Author's Note:**

> References of domestic abuse.  
> Headcanons galore, since the Music Meister had one appearance in the DCU with little background information. Thus, most of his identity is headcanon I've adapted into my personal adaptation of canon. I'm also the first person to use the Music Meister tag in reference to the Batman character for a few years.

On a major note, someone had left their motorcycle running on the side of the street.

On a minor note, that someone was the Black Canary.

He knew she’d be furious he’d stolen her bike.

The Music Meister had his own helmet, but the one he’d slipped over Harley Quinn’s matted hair had been on the bike’s seat. Harley was curled up in his lap as he rode away, and while he was thankful for the speed and dexterity the bike offered, he worried that she was going to slip off and hit the street. She was much weaker than usual, and he wasn’t sure if she’d stay in his lap while he tried to speed over to the Orchid Theater.

Two miles out of Gotham’s center didn’t seem far unless two Batmobile-riding superheroes were chasing you as you guarded a severely injured girl and tried to drive a motorcycle at the same time.

What fueled the motorcycle chase for the Music Meister wasn’t the usual flood of adrenaline, but his anger and the fear he felt for Harley. The wind ruffled the hems of his clothes, but the sensation was far from pleasant every time he glanced at the bloody abrasions on her thigh.

He leaned into every turn, ignoring the people who shouted after him and maneuvering around those who swerved to block him. His pulse was uncomfortably fast, and every shallow breath he gave slightly fogged his helmet, but he kept riding. Every so often he’d look into the back mirrors and see that the Batmobile was closer than he’d thought it was, and he’d rev the motorcycle to go faster; every time, it sped up comfortably, but Music Meister worried more for Harley—having her sit in his lap was barely safe, but he had to watch her. He kept riding, worrying.

A light turned red up ahead, and he bit back a curse.

“Hold on tight!” He demanded, weaving in between the stalling cars. She obeyed, clinging tighter to him. Even though she was wearing his leather jacket, she shivered. Whether it was from fear, cold, or the pain of the sharp air on her open sores, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t have time to figure out.

He clenched both of his fists on the handlebars and the bike hurtled through the intersection; he leaned, and the bike turned around the cars as their brakes squealed and wheels twisted. Someone swore, and the Music Meister could see that the Batmobile had stopped just beyond the mess.

He grinned, speeding onward, but the grin faded when he saw the Batmobile turn and peel away down a side-street. 

“Harley, how much longer could you hold on?” He asked, continuing to speed on. 

“However long ya need me to, Pat,” she slurred, grip loosening slightly.

If they stayed on the bike, the Batmobile might cut them off; even if they managed to pass them, Harley might not be able to hold on long enough to get to the theater. On the other hand, the Music Meister knew he could probably carry her, and the Batmobile might pass right by them if they went on foot.

With a sigh, the Music Meister pulled the bike over and parked it.

“Can you walk?” He asked, then caught sight of her red-streaked leg. “You know what? Never mind. I’m carrying you.”

She didn’t even protest as he picked her up. She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and he set off down the sidewalk, looking out for anything that might jump out at them.

“What if we run into muggers?” Harley said sleepily.

“I can handle them,” he said, wondering if being so injured really did sap away energy so quickly.

The Music Meister’s eyes were locked on the roof of a far-off building, the Orchid Theater.

“We’ll be there in five minutes,” he said, quickening his pace. He tightened his grip on her waist, and she winced.

“My ribs!” She gasped.

“Sorry,” he replied, adjusting his grip so it was higher on her torso. “Just hold on for a few more…”

He trailed off, catching sight of the nose of a black car turning around the corner. With Harley clutched close to his chest, he darted into an empty alley. He checked his shoulder against the brick corner, winced, but didn’t drop Harley. It wasn’t until they were hidden behind a dumpster did he set her down, shielding her against any light that may have flooded the dark space with his body. 

“How’s your head?” He whispered, taking his helmet off and running a hand through his ginger hair.

“Jeez, Patrick, it hurts,” she replied, knocking on the top of the stolen headgear. “But it’s just as screwed up as it was before.”

He managed a weak smile. “Okay.”

Harley pulled his large jacket closer around her, and they stared over his shoulder, watching for any sign of headlights passing by. They waited, holding their breath, as the wheels slowly approached.

The car stopped.

Muttering a soft curse, Patrick set aside his helmet and began rifling through the jacket pockets.

“Harley,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “Stay out of sight, stay safe.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he raised a finger to his lips, taking his baton and his mask out of his pocket. He silently put the glasses on the bridge of his hooked nose, and extended the staff of the weapon. It glimmered slightly in the dirty light.

He stood, giving Harley’s hand a quick squeeze, and lingered in the shadows as Batman and Black Canary entered the alley.

“You sure he’s in here?”

“Positive,” was the stony baritone’s response.

“He stole my bike,” the woman hissed back. “I built that from scraps.”

“I know. You told me.”

_ He had no time for this.  _ Patrick grit his teeth, keeping the baton clutched tightly in his grasp. Finally, impatient for them to find and defeat them, he shot a blast from the tip of his staff. The duo turned, ready to fight.

“Must you always bring  _ her _ along when I escape Arkham?” The Music Meister growled between clenched teeth, stalking out of the shadows.

“Where’s your hostage?” Black Canary demanded, glaring at him.

The Music Meister returned her glare; he hated the way she did her eyeshadow, he hated that her eyebrows were so much darker than her blonde hair, and he  _ hated  _ how pretty her singing voice was. He could barely raise a fist against her.

But Harley, the first friend he’d made in Arkham, was injured, and it was probably because of these so-called  _ heroes. _

He snarled, firing another beam of electricity right at Black Canary, and she fell onto her back. Batman went for a punch, but Patrick hit his attacker in the wrist and struck the man in the shoulder with the tip of the baton.

Patrick kept firing blasts and blocking fists with his baton, kicking and punching when necessary, avoiding Black Canary’s fists and the infrequent batarang, and praying.

There was no way he could let Harley down—not when she was in this condition.

Black Canary lunged at him, and he caught her by the wrists. They grappled for a moment, a quiet swish could heard, and then Patrick managed to push her away.

He went to take a step to Batman when something contracted around his legs, pulling his feet together. The Music Meister fell, landing face-down and eye-to-eye with a purple bruise on Harley’s ankle.

He went to push himself up, but the Batman was already there, holding him down and snapping a pair of cuffs around his wrists. Patrick clenched his jaw, locking eyes with Harley. He felt like crying.

Batman dragged him away to the opening of the alley, and Patrick could hear sirens wailing in the distance and Black Canary’s soothing voice back in the alley.

“Hey, hon, it’s okay,” she cooed. “He’s gone, you’re safe n… _ no _ …!”

Batman’s head darted back to the alley as police cars drove up. The stolen helmet slowly rolled into the light.

“… _ Harley?... _ ”

The tired voice giggled. “The one and only.”

 


	2. Return

Patrick paced the recreation room of Arkham Asylum; it seemed that even if he’d wanted to stop wearing holes in the carpet, he wouldn’t be able to. His fingers wouldn’t stop tugging at the collar at his throat, and he kept muttering angrily under his breath.

“What’s got _you_ so anxious, Clemens?” Nygma said, making another move in his chess game against Crane.

“It’s Harley. I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“I heard that you two were re-admitted at about the same time,” Crane commented, long fingers moving a black bishop across the board. “Would there be a reason for that?”

Patrick groaned, sitting in one of the old sofas in the room. “I was just getting ready to pull a midnight heist when I bumped into her. She was limping, her lip was swollen, and she had these deep, awful gashes on her thighs and…”

He trailed off, noticing that Nygma suddenly looked incredibly disturbed. Crane’s eyes were sharp and burning, lips pursed in a scowl.

“Well…she could barely stand.” He continued weakly, running a hand through his uncharacteristically messy hair. “Batman and Black Canary had obviously been tipped off about my plans, because they were there when I stole a motorcycle to take Harley back to my hideout. I thought that if I was fast enough, I’d get there with enough time to patch her up, but they caught us.”

“Did she say why she’d been hurt?” Crane said stiffly, ignoring the chess game completely.

“…No.” Patrick sighed, leaning back on the sofa. “I assume it was some lousy hero…”

“No. It most definitely wasn’t,” Crane replied sharply, forcing his eyes back to the gameboard.

“Clemens," Nygma said. “Has Batman ever left that many bruises on you?”

Patrick scowled, rubbing his jaw absentmindedly. “No. But I usually stop fighting back once I know my plan's done with.”

“Then let's talk about someone who fights back even when his plan's over,” Nygma continued. “What about when Johnny here gets back?”

Professor Crane glowered at Nygma, hinting that if someone said _Johnny_ again he'd sew their lips together.

“It's usually scratches on his arms and hands,” Clemens replied warily, eyeing the scabs on Crane's bony knuckles.

“That's where the tubes of my aerosol dispensers are. Usually when Batman attacks, he goes straight for the root of the problem.” Crane said, cornering Nygma's rook with a knight.

“I don't see where you guys are going with this,” Patrick said, glancing between the two of them.

Nygma furrowed his brow, staring at the game board sourly. “When does a harlequin go out solo and come back in that condition?”

Patrick's mind went blank. Had Harley ever gone out without Poison Ivy or the Joker? The only time he could think of was when she had tried to reform; she came back without a single scratch, even after a car chase that involved the Batmobile, an entire squad of police cars, and a tank.

“When she's gone out alone, she never comes back like that,” Patrick admitted. “It's only when she's been out with...”

_The Joker._

He choked on his words—it was like that time he'd gotten stuck in the middle of one of Crane's heist, and he couldn't make a sound. Once he regained his senses, his jaw clenched, and his hands were in tight enough fists that his nails dug into his palm.

“How long has this been going on?” He said darkly.

“About as long as they've been working together,” Crane replied, taking out the white rook with his dark knight.

“Has anyone stepped up and talked to her about it?”

Crane scowled. “Psychiatrists, doctors, friends. She's ignored most of them, but I think she's trying to cure—”

“What do you mean, _most_?” Patrick said, releasing his fists in surprise.

“She only listens to Ivy,” Nygma grumbled, moving his king away from its queen.

“You should also be aware that Harley's relationship with Ivy isn't pristine, either,” Crane cut in. “Ivy's as much a sociopath as Joker is psychotic.”

Patrick fumed silently on the sofa, watching the chess game the two other men were playing. Any minute now, either men could win, but it was impossible to tell who. Crane cast a glance at the clock that was hanging on the wall—it was ten minutes slow, but the Arkhamites had adapted to it.

“Some of the others should be getting out of their therapy sessions by now,” the professor noted wearily.

“Good timing, too,” Nygma smirked. “Check.”

As Crane returned his focus to the game, Jervis Tetch entered the room. Patrick watched as the Englishman shied away from the harsh glares of the guards.

“Tetch,” Patrick cleared his throat. “Do you think you're better treated by the guards or by Batman?”

Jervis paused, waiting until the guards left to go pick up another inmate.

“Well, there must be a reason why I keep trying to escape,” he tried to joke. Nygma was the only one who laughed, even though he was cut short when Crane moved his queen.

“Check,” Crane replied, shutting Nygma up.

Patrick fell silent, leaning back into the worn sofa.

“Hello, everyone!”

“Hello, Doctor Leland,” a few inmates sighed.

Dr. Leland stepped to the side of the doorway, casting a wide, comforting smile behind her. Harley limped into the room, her Arkham-issued sweatpants rolled up to her knees, revealing some bandages wound around her ankles.

Patrick jumped out of his seat and went over to Harley in two broad steps.

“Harley!” He gasped. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Pat, I'm fine,” she grinned. “The worst thing I've got is a bruised rib!”

Nygma and Crane momentarily forgot their game. Nygma paled, scratching the top of his head, and Crane's eye twitched.

Patrick looked over her injuries once more; now that he could see the bloodless wounds in the light, he felt much more relieved.

“You didn't get hurt during the motorcycle ride, right? And nothing bad happened once I'd been arrested?”

Harley smiled slightly. “The worst thing you did was hold onto me too tight, Pat.”

Patrick rubbed his eyes, unsure of whether or not he should smile.

“You okay?” Harley said suspiciously. “Usually you ask me why I'm hurt.”

Patrick lowered his hands to stare at her. “I don't think I need to ask. We should sit down.”

As he turned to walk back to the sofa, Harley caught his wrist.

“Something's wrong,” Harley said cynically. “Why aren't you telling me?”

He turned over his shoulder, glancing once more at her injuries before speaking up. “You didn't tell me. And it hasn't just been this time.”

Neither of them spoke. Finally, Harley glanced down at the floor, nodding softly.

“Yeah...I'm working on it,” she said, voice lower than usual. Patrick risked a glance at her, surprised by her sudden shift in pitch.

Harley took him by the arm and guided him to the others, her wide smile plastered over her face again. “Hiya, Ed! Hey, Johnny!”

Nygma grinned, carefully patting Harley's shoulder. Crane murmured his greeting, giving a small smile that Harley returned as she peered at the game board.

“Who's what?” She asked, creeping up behind Nygma.

“Nygma's white and Crane is black,” Patrick piped up, standing to the side.

“He's still trying to figure out how to get out of this,” Nygma said triumphantly.

Crane and Harley examined the checked board, Harley comically tapping a finger on her chin. A grin split across her face as she exchanged a look with the professor. He seemed to understand, and moved his black king.

“Checkmate,” Crane smirked. Nygma began to pout, and as he started bickering with Crane, Patrick relaxed slightly. As long as Harley was in Arkham, she was safe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore the Music Meister, but there's so little we get to see of him. Thus, headcanons have been living in my mind forever, and I hope to be able to implement these without detracting from his original character.  
> Anyway, my headcanon name for him is Patrick Clemens, in case that wasn't clear enough.


End file.
